Silo

Chapter 3

The stench was foul. Whatever was down there was near death. Pulling my shirt up over my nose, I yanked the door open and took my first vomit-inducing step down the ladder. The electricity to this tunnel had been cut fifty years ago so I had nothing but the muted sunlight filtering through the hatch to guide my feet. Even that would fade to black the further down I went. The darkness would have scared me years ago, but not anymore. If you couldn't see it, then you didn't know it was there to be afraid of. 

I reached the bottom and stood there, stared up at the entrance pit to the shadows of my friends above. With nothing more than a whistle, I cued Keith to drop me the lantern and follow me down. It was usually Evan I trusted by my side. But, when we were going in blind, unsure who or what we'd find, I needed someone who would act first and question later. I needed someone who could make snap decisions and had the strength to defend them. I needed Keith. 

"Ugh," he moaned when his feet hit the damp floor. "What the hell is that smell?" 

I turned our bottle lantern toward the ground, revealing a thin layer of orange-tinged water. "Iron," I said, positive the water was loaded with bacteria, the kind that had me swallowing back bile while trying to recall when my last tetanus shot was.  

We stood there, taking in the graffiti and steel support beams until Evan made it down, each of us gagging as our senses became immersed in the stench. Keith signaled Evan to dim his light and stay close. The stray cans littering the floor told me someone was living down here, the size of the boot print in the squalor giving me pause. We definitely weren't alone, and whoever was down here with us wasn't exactly small. 

Evan faltered in the darkness, his foot sliding out from under him. He reached out to steady himself, and I grabbed him, stopped him from using an asbestos-wrapped pole for support. The ash-filled air had already taken a toll on his respiratory system; I didn't need those nasty fibers adding to his problems.  

The silo's layout was similar to ours, minus the living quarters and command center. If I had my bearings right, then the staircase to the left would lead us to the bottom of the elevator shaft. That's the route we took. 

We reached the heavy steel blast doors at the bottom of the shaft, caught the flicker of light beneath it before all went dark. Whatever was living here lie behind that door...and it knew we were here. 

Moving that door silently would be impossible. They were heavy and steel and complained loudly when opened or closed. With a nod to the others, I steeled my nerves, released the safety on my rifle, and heaved it open, hoping to God that I could get a shot off before all went to hell. 

All three of our lanterns flared to life the second we crossed the threshold, a not so subtle tactic to throw our enemy off guard. Unfortunately, it had the same effect on us, and my eyes screamed in protest as they tried to rapidly adjust to the bright light.  

We fanned out, our backs to each other, as we surveyed the area like spokes of a wheel, each of us searching the room. The far wall was lined with food, all cans, all with their labels torn off. Cots covered in thin wool blankets lined the opposite side. Next to that was there cache of weapons and ammunition, all neatly stacked as if it had recently been catalogued. Interspersed amongst the order were broken heating ducts, tiny rivulets of tainted water dripping down. Chipped black and white tile covered half the floor, the inch-thick rubber that insulated the walls, rotting, and oozing through. There was an old painter's bucket in the corner, the odor suggesting it was a makeshift toilet, and a jug of what appeared to be un-drinkable water next to it.  

"Look at this," Keith said, his lantern pausing on the stacks of crates and damp boxes. "Where the hell did they find all this?" 

I propped my rifle up against a drainage pipe and took a step toward an old, wooden door propped up on cinder blocks. On top was a chess set, the black queen down, the king still in play. On the floor lay several decks of cards and an old baseball and glove. I picked it up, let the leather wrap around my hand, remembering the game, the sixteen strikeouts, and the one walk I allowed in that last day.